A Soldier's Woman

"Oooh. Into the closet," the redhead chanted.

"Into the closet." The others shouted with him, and Debbie nudged her shoulder, joining in.

Janelle glanced at Debbie, then back at Ron, who came towering toward her. His wide shoulders and dark looks made her think of an Arabic sheik. For an instant, she imagined him throwing her over his shoulder, hauling her back to his pillowed bed, and making passionate love to her in its soft confines. But this was reality, not fantasy.

He extended his hand and she took it, pressing to her feet without putting much weight on him. She didn't want to make her weight any more obvious than it needed to be; though just the touch of his fingers made her feel lighter than air. Lighter than the clouds.

She glided on those clouds to the closet, the taunting chants of the crowd nearly inaudible. In this moment, only the strength of his fingers and the intensity of his gaze existed.

When she crossed the threshold she nearly turned and bolted back out. What if something happened in this room? What if it didn't?

The shadowy room—brightened only by a small nightlight—terrified and excited her. What would she do? What could she do? He wouldn't want to touch her… Wouldn't even want to look at her. Why would he? The door closed behind them and laughter flooded from the crack at the base.

She turned to face him, and her breath hitched. He smelled as good as he looked, and even in the dim light, his bright blue eyes sparkled.

Janelle opened her mouth, but it took a moment before the words would move past her quivering lips. "We can just wait in here for a few minutes, then go out again. We don't have to do anything."

He smiled, raising an eyebrow.

She took a shaky breath, lifting her chin a notch to get the air past the hitch in her throat.

"And why wouldn't we?" He stepped into her.